


It's a Distinct Possibility

by Footloose



Series: Loaded March EXTRAS [16]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Establishing themselves under their secret identities is all in a night's work, until Merlin decides to have a little fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Distinct Possibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catlechat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlechat/gifts).



> Written as part of the Prompt Request #2 Round for Loaded March Extras:
> 
> Prompted by Franzthemeerkat (LJ)  
> Could we see more instances of Merlin and Arthur out in the world, with Merlin acting as Arthur's boytoy?
> 
> * * *

Gwaine was sprawled on the plush seats of the VIP corner booth, his shoulder digging in Arthur's ribs. Arthur barely paid him any notice and concentrated on the whisper-shout from the man across the table. As best as he could figure, the man -- a representative of an illegal arms dealer -- wanted to undercut Pendragon Consulting by selling Pendragon semiautomatic rifles for twenty percent less than the commercial price, and only if Arthur would steal from his company's own inventory and deliver them for free. Arthur's kickback would be a paltry five percent of net sales. The rest of the money went to pay any number of crew involved in the smuggling ring.

"Hm," Arthur said, though the sound was drowned out by the music blasting through the club. He attempted to look as if he were seriously considering the man's offer, but he wasn't certain how well he managed. Fortunately, a pretty blonde in a cinched corset and ultra-miniskirt came by to offer bottle service, and the distraction gave the arms dealer something else to look at for a few minutes while Arthur struggled to keep from laughing out loud.

The man's offer was preposterous and deeply insulting. Arthur, in his persona as the bad boy on the outs with his father, would be standing up and walking away without another word. But Arthur, the _real_ Arthur, wanted to laugh until he was gasping for breath and was seeing stars.

The arms dealer might not be impressed if Arthur did either of those things, though. And, for some reason, Bayard seemed to think that they needed to impress this particular second- or third-class middleman who was wasting Arthur's evening by pretending to be more important than he really was. 

Arthur knew that his team needed to establish themselves a bit more. Rumours and innuendo wasn't enough. Even the cover story that had been spread by the Directory through judicious use of well-placed secret agents wasn't going to hold up under intense scrutiny. That intense scrutiny would only be diffracted if Arthur made the required public appearances and met with the so-called "important" people.

As much as Arthur would rather stretch out on the sofa in front of the telly, a beer in hand and his legs tangled with Merlin's, Arthur didn't mind going out. Wasting his time with _idiots_ , on the other hand…

He smiled politely as the woman performing bar service set out the glasses. Five tumblers in all; Arthur was impressed by the woman's attention. She had obviously noticed that Merlin and Perceval had gone onto the dance floor some time ago.

Gwaine dealt with the tab -- a hundred-and-twenty pound fee for both the overpriced whiskey and passable bottle service -- and sent the woman on her way with a fifty-pound note that he tucked in her cleavage when she wasn't quite paying attention. For a brief moment, she looked as if she were about to slap him across the face, but reconsidered with a beaming smile when she pulled the bill out from between her breasts and saw how much it was.

The music changed. It was less ear-splitting now. Arthur didn't have to rely on lip-reading to figure out what the man was saying anymore, and that was a relief, because his lip-reading wasn't always the most reliable. Pellinor was better at it, though Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that Bedivere had been practicing lately, and it was a pity that neither one of them were on duty this evening. They'd gone home to visit their families for the week.

"So, what do you think?"

The arms dealer leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He snatched the tumbler glass, held it loosely between his hands, and stared at Arthur with a dark, eyebrow-heavy look that Arthur assumed was supposed to be intimidating.

It wasn't.

Arthur took his time. He sipped his whiskey -- _eh, I've had better_ \-- and elbowed Gwaine lightly, half to urge him to get out of his space, half to warn him that Arthur was about to do something potentially stupid.

Gwaine didn't seem to notice either way. His head bobbed and his fingers tapped on his knee in rhythm with the music, and he stared out at the dance floor. Arthur didn't dare take his eyes from the arms dealer -- Robert? Richard? Ricky? -- to see what Gwaine was watching. It must be interesting, because Gwaine, who didn't take his role as a bodyguard seriously even on the best of days, was a plonker at it now.

"Do we have a deal?" Ricky asked. He took a quick swig of the whiskey in his hand. Arthur watched with some satisfaction as Ricky suppressed the urge to make a face as the liquid burned down his throat. He gave Ricky a moment to recover.

"For clarity's sake, let me go over what you're proposing," Arthur said, pausing. When Ricky nodded and made a magnanimous _go ahead_ gesture, Arthur continued, "My part in this endeavour is the liberation of semi-automatic weapons that are currently languishing under heavy guard in Pendragon warehouses, where they'll be transported to the military, who won't miss them as long as I pay off the receiving agent on base. You and your men will take care of the resale, and in exchange, you'll keep ninety-five percent of the sell price and I get five percent of the finder's fee. Is that about right?"

Ricky's brows pinched in the middle of his forehead and he leaned so far forward it looked as if he were going to crash through the table. Arthur wondered if the drinks had been spiked, but thus far, he wasn't feeling any side effects. He guessed that all the big, multi-syllable words had thrown Ricky for a loop.

"Yes." There was a pause. "Um." Another pause. "Yeah, that sounds about right. So, are you in or out?"

Arthur half-turned to Gwaine. "They're reselling at eighty percent to get a quick sale. Eighty percent of full retail, even including the government discount, is sixty-eight hundred pounds. Five guns per case sells for forty-two point five at full retail, or thirty-four thousand pounds at eighty. Let's say twenty cases per box truck for a grand total of eight hundred forty-six thousand pounds at full retail or six hundred eighty thousand pounds at eighty percent."

"Ayuh," Gwaine said, leaning his head back to indicate he was listening. After a pause, he said, "Twenty-five cases. Can fit twenty-five in a decent box truck, boss."

"Twenty-five," Arthur amended, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, certain that Gwaine had only done that to force Arthur to quickly recalculate the costs in his head. "That makes it one million six with assorted loose change at full retail, or eight-fifty thousand at eighty percent."

"If you say so, boss," Gwaine said.

Arthur glanced at Ricky. Ricky was wide-eyed, his mouth a little slack, but he nodded, too.

"I'll be generous and assume you're holding fast at eighty percent resale and that you're not going to drop the price the minute the buyer negotiates down. My cut of eight hundred fifty thousand pounds is five percent --"

Ricky nodded again. It had the interesting effect of looking like a bobblehead.

"Works out to forty-two point five thousand pounds, which is the equivalent of selling _one case_ at full retail," Arthur said. He raised his glass and stared at Ricky for a moment over the lip before taking a sip. "Tell me, why would I waste all my energy making arrangements to _misplace_ twenty-five cases of high-end semi-automatic rifles for exactly the same amount of money that I would get if I simply sent one of my boys to a street corner with a case in the trunk of his car with instructions not to come back until he sold them all at _full retail_?

"Not to mention that I would be doing this at a great personal loss. After all those palms have been greased to ensure their owners look the other way, I would be out nearly twenty thousand pounds."

Gwaine nudged him. "Our mate down on base is greedy, remember? He tripled his fee last time. Said that the MPs were breathing down his neck."

This time, Arthur did roll his eyes. "Thirty thousand pounds, then. My net profit would amount to barely fifteen thousand pounds, all told."

Ricky's lips were thin and there was a perplexed look in his eyes, as if he were going back over what Arthur had said and was recalculating the math in his head, slowly, carefully, _painfully_.

"On the other hand, if I were in a hurry to unload twenty-five cases of high-end semi-automatic rifles at absolutely no risk -- legal or financial -- all I would need to do is make one phone call to a business associate, tell my personal assistant to fill out the required contract paperwork, and wait a week for the approvals and the payment to be made. I would get my usual ten percent commission for the sale, which -- ten percent of one million six with assorted loose change, assuming I insist on full retail and refuse to offer the traditional discount between friends -- equals one hundred and six thousand pounds."

Arthur took a slow sip of his whiskey. It had a bitter aftertaste, almost like burnt cinnamon, and it was growing on him.

"That's a one hundred and six thousand pounds bonus, my friend, free and clear of income tax, since Pendragon Consulting offers a _very generous_ compensation package for purchases of this size. So, why would I take your offer when I already have a far sweeter deal waiting for me at the office?" Arthur put down his whiskey. He looked at Ricky in consideration. He leaned forward and wriggled a finger, inviting Ricky to come closer. "I'll tell you why."

Ricky looked dubious. He inched closer, his knees hitting the table. 

Arthur grabbed the loose tie hanging from around Ricky's neck, tightened it on one smooth motion, and yanked him over the table. Ricky dropped his glass, the two untouched tumblers of whiskey and Arthur's half-filled glass were wiped off the surface of the table and went rolling across the floor, and Gwaine narrowly saved the bottle before it went over the edge, too.

"The answer, Ricky, is that I _wouldn't_ ," Arthur snarled. He waited until he heard Ricky gasp for breath, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. Arthur let him go with a shove that sent Ricky flying onto the plush bench on the other side of the C-shaped booth, but Ricky was so off-balance that he went tumbling out. 

Ricky made an attempt to salvage his dignity and stood up abruptly, brushing down his clothes. He gave Arthur an indignant glare. "You'll regret --"

"I'll regret this, yeah, whatever. Tell your boss not to bother me again until he's got a deal to make that's worth my while." Arthur snorted. "Five percent. Give me a break. What do I look like, some schmuck off the street? _Get the fuck out of here_."

Ricky stared, big-eyed and slack-jawed, before common sense and self-preservation kicked in. He disappeared into the crowd.

Arthur took Gwaine's glass out of his hand and took a drink over Gwaine's squawk of protest. He gave Gwaine a meaningful look. "What use are you if you can't save me from the riffraff?"

"It's hardly my fault," Gwaine said, sitting up straight. He studied the bottle of whiskey before taking a swig of it, and gestured over to the dance floor with his free hand. "Stupidity isn't a crime. _That_ , however --"

Gwaine turned, extending out his arm, his finger pointing at the crowd. Arthur wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking at, but the dancers parted just enough for him to see exactly what Gwaine was talking about.

Arthur's jaw dropped.

" _That_ should be illegal. In fact, I'm fairly sure it is."

_That_ was Merlin, and Arthur could hardly believe his eyes. He'd seen the outfit that Merlin had put on before they left the flat. It had been worth a second and third look and multiple attempts to cajole Merlin out of it before they put in their nightly quota of Directory work. But somewhere between Merlin claiming boredom during the meeting and crawling over Arthur's lap to avoid the "business" aspect of the conversation and _finally_ getting rid of Ricky so that Arthur could relax, some _thing_ had changed.

Namely, how Merlin was _working_ that outfit.

"Holy _shite_ ," Arthur breathed. 

Merlin wore a vivid turquoise button-down that clung to his frame like a second skin. The sleeves were rolled up halfway to his elbows, revealing a pair of slim leather bands around his wrists. The collar was open a generous three buttons, hinting at collarbones and chest hair, the smooth skin of his throat covered by a smooth leather dog's collar, the bronze buckle facing outward. Dark navy blue stonewashed skinny jeans were tucked into knee-high buckled combat boots that shouldn't go with the outfit, but somehow did.

Merlin had been on the dance floor for a while, but he didn't look any worse for wear. His hair was a curly, spiky, just-rolled-out-of-bed mess, and between the shifting coloured lights and the eyeliner he'd insisted on wearing --

Arthur still wasn't entirely certain if he wanted to throttle or thank Morgana for that.

\-- gave him an almost ethereal, completely snog-able air.

Merlin seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He moved as if completely unaware of the eyes on him -- and now that Arthur was paying attention, there _were_ a lot of people watching Merlin, both on and off the dance floor. A man moved behind Merlin, placing his hand on Merlin's hip; Merlin rolled away in a simple, completely casual twitch of his body, moving aside and out of reach.

Arthur felt a flare of anger twisted with jealousy. Where _was_ Perceval --

He saw Perceval just off to the side, looming from an outer circle that seemed to have formed around Merlin, present and watchful, but obviously unable to keep up with the gentle rise and fall of Merlin's arms in rhythm with the music, nor with the sinuous glide and twist and occasional turns that left Arthur's mouth watering.

Merlin raised his arms; a patch of bare skin at his waist hinted at the cut of his abdominals and the curve of hipbone. Someone else moved into his space -- another man, nearly as tall as Perceval if only half as muscular -- and tried to pull Merlin close to him.

Merlin smiled, sweet and coy, but the glint in his eyes was forbidding, as kind a refusal as any, and compounded by a wave of his hand as he turned away and continued to dance as if he was untouchable.

Perhaps he was. But he belonged to Arthur.

Arthur shoved at Gwaine's shoulder. "Get out of my way."

"I think I'll stay here. You're squirming. I'm entertained. It's win-win," Gwaine said, raising both brows and grinning smugly.

Arthur gave Gwaine a good long look before standing up, climbing onto the bench and walking over Gwaine. Gwaine caught his legs, but Arthur glared down and said, "If you value your balls, you'll let me go."

Gwaine let him go with a wounded look. 

Arthur walked onto the dance floor. He didn't bother with a backward glance -- he already knew that Gwaine would be following him. They might be out clubbing, but Gwaine and Perceval had roles to play as much as Arthur and Merlin did, and it would look strange if Arthur left a bodyguard behind.

A drunken crowd on a dance floor had a certain mentality, Arthur knew. Some of them were perpetually on the prowl, in search of easy prey. Others were content to follow the herd, clinging together against the predators. A rare few, like Merlin, didn't quite fit anywhere on the spectrum and were unaware of their own appeal.

No one stopped Arthur as he made his way to Merlin. There were hands reaching for Arthur, touching him, pulling at him. Arthur ignored them all until he was near Merlin.

He didn't reach out. He let Merlin come to him. It took a few minutes for Merlin to glance up and become aware of Arthur's presence; a small smile tugged at his lips and there was a flutter of eyelashes, as if pleased with himself.

Of course he was, the cheeky bugger.

Arthur resisted the urge to grab Merlin and to pull him in. Merlin danced in a loose, teasing pattern before sidling closer and closer, fingers twining in Arthur's waistcoat, tracing the edges, pulling at the buttons. His hands slid down Arthur's chest and out toward his hips, thumbs hooking into Arthur's leather belt. Merlin fit himself against Arthur, nearly straddling Arthur's thigh, and he leaned in close enough for Arthur to feel a huff of breath upon his skin.

"Fucking sexy, you are," Merlin said. He ground himself against Arthur's leg. There was _no_ missing Merlin's erection. Those skinny jeans didn't leave much to the imagination.

_Dear God_ , Arthur thought, closing his eyes. He'd made his way across the dance floor half-hard, but now he was at full mast.

"Talking to yourself again, love?" Arthur asked.

Merlin's smile widened, but he kept his eyes down, subdued, submissive. It did something to Arthur to see Merlin like this, because they both knew that Merlin was anything _but_.

"Love you in a suit. I do. I like you like this. Your jacket off. Your shirtsleeves rucked up. Your tie loose but tucked inside your vest. Tailored trousers with perfect pleats. You look proper posh," Merlin said. "It's sexy."

Arthur put his hands on Merlin's hips and guided Merlin with precise intent; a shift to the left, a shift to the right. There contact was rough, electrifying, arousing.

Merlin's eyes fluttered. His head tilted backward. He bit his lower lip.

Arthur's fingers dug tightly into Merlin's skin. He pushed Merlin, walking him off the dance floor, past a mob of people lingering near the bar and down the dark, dank corridor that led to the loo. Merlin's grin was full of mischief, but his eyes remained downcast, ridiculously demure.

Arthur shoved Merlin against the bathroom door, guided him inside, and snogged that infuriatingly _sexy_ look off of Merlin's face, though he doubted that it was with much success. Distantly, he heard someone groan, someone else protest half-heartedly, a third person mutter rudely, and he opened his eyes in time to see a fourth hastily tucking himself into his pants and buttoning up before hurrying out.

Merlin laughed softly when they broke for air, his voice husky when he spoke. "One day I'll get on my knees on the dance floor and blow you in front of everyone."

"Promises, promises," Arthur said. He unbuckled his own belt and opened his trousers, tilting his head. "If you want to put on a show, you'll have to prove it's worth watching, first."

Merlin's grin broadened. He was on his knees in an instant, nudging Arthur's legs apart so that he could fit in-between. He pulled at Arthur's pants, getting them down to mid-thigh, and pushed Arthur's vest and shirt until they were out of the way.

Merlin wasted no time. He deep-throated Arthur's cock from the first suck. Arthur's head knocked back against the door at the sudden wet heat, and it took several gasping breaths for him to come to himself enough to murmur encouragement as Merlin's head bobbed on and off. 

There was no rhythm, not at first. Merlin would suck him down halfway. He'd take Arthur's cock as deep into his throat as he could. He'd hold Arthur's cock in his mouth and pause with his nose in Arthur's groin. He'd make a rumbling murmur that sent vibrations all the way up Arthur's spine. He'd suck shallowly, licking around the head of Arthur's cock. He'd pay attention to Arthur's slit. He'd suck at the pre-come as if it were the most delicious nectar he'd ever tasted.

Arthur lost track of everything that Merlin had done, that he was doing. Merlin had a bag of tricks somewhere, full of new things that he hadn't tried yet, and Arthur despaired that they'd ever reach the bottom.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Merlin," Arthur hissed, his hand drifting from the door handle to the back of Merlin's head. Merlin hummed in approval, and Arthur could feel it the instant that Merlin's jaw slackened around his cock, holding him with nothing but full, wet lips. Arthur's hips jerked up, a tiny hitch at first, and each thrust that followed was faster, deeper, harder.

There were tears in Merlin's eyes, a salty streak down one cheek, but the only sounds that Merlin made were urging and obscene. 

A tingling heat grew somewhere deep in Arthur's groin. He watched his cock disappear in Merlin's mouth and felt his climax rise and spread until he pulled back and thrust in once more, coming hard.

Arthur fell back against the door, panting. He wasn't sure how he managed to stay standing -- Merlin's hand steadying his hips likely had something to do with it. 

"What am I going to do with you?" Arthur asked, his voice soft. He let his fingers trail over the tears drying on Merlin's face and over the ruined, swollen wreck that Arthur had made of his mouth. Merlin sucked those fingers, and the completely wanton look that Merlin shot up at Arthur had his cock twitching valiantly for another round.

"I'm hoping that taking me home _right now_ and fucking me with my boots on is a possibility," Merlin said, getting to his feet. He was a little wobbly until he caught his balance. Arthur reached for him, and Merlin hissed, a flush spreading over his cheeks when Arthur discovered the large wet spot staining his jeans, his shirt barely long enough to hide it. Arthur grinned -- knowing that Merlin had been so turned on while sucking Arthur off did something _spectacular_ to his ego.

Arthur pulled up his pants and did his trousers, doing his best to straighten himself out but knowing without even looking in the mirror that it was a lost cause.

"I think it's a distinct possibility," Arthur said, pulling Merlin in for a gentle kiss that quickly turned wet and filthy, tasting the salt of mixed sweat and his own cum. "But only if you keep that collar on, too."


End file.
